It's Not With a Lover's Lyre The Muse

It's not with a lover's lyre, not at all
That I go around, attracting a crowd
It's the rattle with which lepers crawl
That in my hands keeps singing aloud

Where nothing is needed, I walk like a child
My shadow serves as the friend I crave
The wind breezes out of a grove gone wild
And my foot is on the edge of the grave

All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
As I wait for her whom no one can command
Whatever I cherish most-youth, freedom, glory
Fades before her who bears the flute, in her hand